


are you in love?

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: Gandrew - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24386017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: “Garrett,” he says, very seriously. “You know it’s 2017, right?”“Time is an illusion, Andrew,” Garrett says in his best mad-scientist, “Back to the Future,” Crazy-Einstein-White-Hair, Doc What’s-His-Face voice.“Right,” he continues, and almost ruins the - this - whatever this little game is that they’re playing, their little charade, by laughing again. “But you do know it isn’t 1980 anymore?”“Look.”Garrett rolls his eyes. “If it’s a matter of car-stereo-compatibility” - he makes a big show of reaching into his jacket pocket, wiggling his fingers around so Andrew can see them through the green fabric, and slapping a CD down on the table in front of him - “I’ve got you covered.”
Relationships: Andrew Siwicki/Garrett Watts
Comments: 21
Kudos: 60





	are you in love?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unicorndads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicorndads/gifts).



> Prompted by @[biggayunicornplushie](https://biggayunicornplushie.tumblr.com) on Tumblr: _Hey Liv 💜 I would love for you to bring a fic idea to life, focusing on music in Gandrew's relationship. Suggestions: Garrett giving Andrew a CD, learning about Tippy the Duke, Andrew joining him for a car concert, Coachella, singing in the car on Valentine's, Andrew sending him "Home", them having a moment after he sings the chorus in NIAB resulting in him sending Andrew "Are You In Love"? Whatever you decide to write about for this, I know you'll make this another one of your masterpieces 💕_
> 
> Hello, love! This has to be one of my favorite requests I’ve ever received, and possibly my favorite piece I’ve ever written. Really got away from me, too, I didn’t mean for it to be nearly this long.
> 
> Thank you so much for sending this to me - you are truly a blessing to this fandom ❤️❤️

It starts like this:

They're at Garrett's messy, slipshod apartment, because Andrew's finally worked up the courage to ask his (gorgeous, overwhelming, stunningly attractive) friend-of-a-friend to hang out for the first time. And Garrett's pulled, out of his shitty cabinets, a fucking _waffle press_ , of all things, to make them - to make "breakfast for dinner," he says, with that charming grin Andrew thinks would let him get away with murder. Then they're mixing up the batter and laughing, and Garrett's saying, "Dude, music?" and Andrew's heart pounds, _Of course, of course_ _,_ and he's scrolling through his phone - there's a little speck of half-mixed waffle on the bridge of his nose, and Andrew wants desperately to reach up and wipe it away -

And then they're listening to Frank Ocean, and Andrew finds himself thinking, _I wish every evening was like this. I wish I could live every day of my life like this._

A little while later, they're - just a little bit drunk, their bellies full and heavy with syrup, and Andrew's lost in the way Garrett so effortlessly sings along with the lyrics of "Thinkin Bout You," even when he's tipsy and giggling up a storm, and Andrew cannot help but laugh with him, marveling at the fluidity, the dexterity of his voice.

"You have a pretty song," he says without thinking. "Voice. Pretty voice, I mean. That's what I meant."

"You're not too bad yourself, Siwicki," Garrett smiles. It is a lie; Andrew is a terrible singer, but he can't find it within himself to protest, because.

Because.

Because Garrett is... the sun. Incandescent, beaming now the way he had when they'd first been introduced. Andrew knows he is gone. He will never, ever be able to say no to him.

He can't decline, when Garrett invites him to a car concert a few months later - "Come on, buddy, it'll be so fun! Look, I know you've never heard of this band before, but I promise I'll get you hooked."

Andrew's already hooked, and they both know it.

Garrett drums his fingers against the steering wheel while they're cruising down the speedway, and Andrew wonders what song he's hearing in his head now. Then he's driving with one hand - _his hands, his big fucking hands, his arms_ \- and messing with the Bluetooth controls with the other, and Andrew says, "Garr, eyes on the road - I'll do it," snickering a little and taking Garrett's unlocked phone from the cupholder in between them.

He flicks through Garrett's endless Spotify feed until he's found the album he specifically requested.

"P-Post... modern Jukebox?" he says, a little befuddled.

"Oh, my god, Andrew! Have you not heard of them?" Garrett's saying in mock outrage. "How can we be friends?!"

"We all already know you have the better taste in music, Garrett," Andrew replies, and the laugh that surges out of Garrett in response makes his stomach flip.

He feels light, buoyant, like a balloon free of a child's sticky grasp, when Garrett takes his hand at the concert and hauls him up so they're both standing in the backseat, practically hanging out of the car through the sunroof.

Andrew can feel the bass guitar in his bones, he swears it. Garrett screams along to the lyrics and wraps an arm around Andrew's shoulders. He's sure he's sweating through his shirt, Garrett can probably _feel_ it - _so gross being out here in the dead summer heat_ \- but then the lights wash over Garrett just so, and his heart stutters in his chest.

Andrew's heart threatens to bail on him again on one particular morning a year later, after they've started getting coffee on the regular - because Garrett found this great little place near Andrew and Ricky's apartment, and offered to treat him for their first time, _just, please, Andrew, I know you're a slut for iced coffee, let's go check it out?_ And Andrew had laughed way too hard at that sly, off-handed quip to be able to refuse.

Garrett sits down across from him and hands him a little package decorated with Christmas wrapping paper. (It's July.)

"What's this?" Andrew says, turning the parcel over in his hands.

"Early birthday present, if you want," Garrett tells him - and he has no business looking that shifty, eyes darting from side to side like a man on the run. Andrew knows he must be reenacting a scene out of a thriller flick, "Mission: Impossible" theme music blaring in his head. His expression is just so comically stoic that Andrew cannot help but let a few hysterical giggles slip out of his mouth.

He carefully removes the snowflake-speckled casing to reveal a cassette tape.

"Garrett," he says, very seriously. "You know it's 2017, right?"

"Time is an illusion, Andrew," Garrett says in his best mad-scientist, "Back to the Future," Crazy-Einstein-White-Hair, Doc What's-His-Face voice.

"Right," he continues, and almost ruins the - this - whatever this little game is that they're playing, their little charade, by laughing again. "But you do know it isn't 1980 anymore?"

 _"Look."_ Garrett rolls his eyes. "If it's a matter of car-stereo-compatibility" - he makes a big show of reaching into his jacket pocket, wiggling his fingers around so Andrew can see them through the green fabric, and slapping a CD down on the table in front of him - "I've got you covered."

It takes Andrew nearly ten minutes to recover from that one.

"You're very, very sweet, Garrett," he says once he can finally breathe again, wiping tears out of his eyes. "I don't even know _how_ you made me a fuckin' old-school mixtape, man, but I'm so grateful for it. For _you_."

Garrett shrugs, smiles at him brilliantly, and Andrew is once again struck by how infallibly _kind_ his friend is. "I just threw a few tracks together that remind me of you. Wasn't too hard. Thought you'd like it."

"I haven't even listened to it yet, and I already love it."

He digs his old Walkman out of the closet when he gets home.

(Tells himself his stomach hurts from the iced coffee; not the nervousness that roils in his gut when he clicks play and waits for the spool to start rolling.)

 _"Hey, Andrew,"_ Garrett says on the tape. His heart sings at the sound of his best friend's voice - scratchy and staticky over this imperfect medium, but still, still perfect to Andrew's ears. _"God, I haven't made one of these since '99. Still remember how, though. At least, I think. I mean, I_ hope _this is working. Otherwise, I'm gonna feel pretty silly._

_"Anyway, I hope you know how much I care about you. Feelings are kind of weird sometimes, and I know I don't say it very often, but - I really love you, bud. You're my best friend. And, well... uh, here's to you, man."_

There's crackling in Andrew's ears as the recording lapses back into silence; then a slight rustling can be made out, and the unmistakable, hollow sound of fingers tapping against the side of a guitar. Andrew can practically see Garrett in his mind's eye: long, lanky legs sprawled out across the covers of his bed as he records, a guitar nestled in his lap and the strap loose about his lovely neck - his _collarbones_ -

Garrett starts singing, and Andrew's eyes mist over.

He knows it's done. He's gone for.

He's falling in love with his best friend.

This fact is reaffirmed over and over again in the coming months, and Andrew continues to steadily ignore it. Despite all evidence suggesting otherwise - his flustered, terrible, not-quite-flirting; his palms sweating whenever Garrett comes a little too close; the way he can't help himself from staring at Garrett, awestruck, every time he sings - Andrew's beginning to think he might be able to get over this. He might be able to find it within himself to move on, and let Garrett continue with his life without having to worry about his weird, straight best friend's mixed signals and internal sexual crisis.

Then Garrett asks him to come to Coachella.

Andrew is wearing the hoodie Garrett made for him when he calls - the little elf with the red ribbon, despondent on Garrett's apartment floor, emblazoned on his chest - and he's laughing into the phone at Garrett's wild recounting of the story, about his friend Michael and their crazy Post Malone bike delivery scheme.

"The only 'Post' I care about is Postmodern Jukebox," Andrew tells him once he's finally finished, and is panting slightly on the other end of the line.

"Oh, _that's_ my boy, Andrew," Garrett says, so excitedly, and Andrew grins; sticks his tongue between his teeth; gets ready to go in fifteen minutes.

* * *

The trip goes a little something like this:

Andrew is outrageously drunk, and slumped in a recliner in their Airbnb. It is five in the morning. Their two roommates are nowhere to be found.

Garrett - also very drunk - has both his hands on the armrests, boxing Andrew in.

Andrew would like to kiss him. This is a fact that remains constant throughout the various states of his inebriated mind, and has unfortunately not arisen due to intoxication. Andrew has been wanting to kiss Garrett for over a year now. On the occasions he has wanted to kiss Garrett the most, in fact, he has been harrowingly, mind-numbingly, pathetically sober.

But now he is drunk. And Garrett is, too, and soft indie bullshit is playing out of his speaker on the counter.

Garrett's face does a funny little maneuver. Andrew realizes he has somehow relayed this last part out loud.

"You _like_ my soft indie bullshit," he slurs, tripping over the words. He is tantalizingly close.

"Yeah, I do," Andrew breathes, admitting very easily to his sins. He is a very bad liar. This truth is, pitifully, intensified under the influence of alcohol, to the point where he is heartbreakingly, cuttingly honest. He even made a girl cry at a party once, when he was a few shots too deep and she was in his way, and he just wanted to get to Garrett.

"Why is our whole relationship music?" he asks suddenly, in a rare moment of what he thinks may be (albeit drunken) clarity.

Garrett fumbles for Andrew's fingers and intertwines them between his own. His eyes are blue and steely in the lamplight, and Andrew cannot look away.

"Because," he says, very gently and very close, "I'm a coward, and I can't find any other way to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Andrew asks, equally as soft. He isn't sure he's ready for the answer.

Garrett looks and looks and looks, and leans the tiniest bit closer. Andrew thinks - they might finally be about to kiss, and -

Michael and Jesse burst through the front door, shouting about something very important and making way too much noise for Andrew's impending hangover to process - and Garrett is getting up, going to greet them with hugs. Moving away from Andrew, who is just now remembering how handsy he gets when he is drunk - pretending this didn't happen.

Andrew pretends not to be in love with him on Valentine's Day, too, when Garrett's singing in his ridiculous falsetto and laughing wildly when the little bear Andrew got him rolls across the dashboard whenever he turns the car.

They drink $20 champagne at Garrett's house and listen to their joint playlist on shuffle, and Garrett's all wide, gorgeous smiles and broad shoulders, arms spread out along the back of the couch so his thumb's just brushing Andrew's shoulder, and Andrew selfishly thinks, _If things just stay like this forever - if he comes to me every Valentine's Day, and sings to me in his car and takes me out on dates but calls them something different - maybe I can be happy._

Many nights are spent like this. Garrett has a different playlist for every month, and sends Andrew a new song on a near-weekly basis. Andrew combs through the lyrics of each one, searching for a sign that Garrett loves him back and ruining his sleep schedule in the process.

He listens to the most recent one - "Imported" by Jessie Reyez - on his way over to film a new video, and thinks maybe this is the sign he has been looking for.

Maybe Garrett is tired of games. Wants to spell it out for him.

Andrew wishes he had the courage to be that direct, that head-on, when he watches Garrett sing in the recording studio. He listens to his dulcet voice, his even vibrato; he sees how nervous Garrett gets when he realizes Andrew can hear him. He sees Garrett stare, out of the corner of his eye, when it's his turn to record.

For years, he's been besotted. Countless months, he's listened to Garrett's tracks and albums and endless playlists, and said nothing.

He sits on the sofa in his tiny, one-man apartment - almost as small as Garrett's old lease. Plays on his phone, until his finger lands on the comforting green of the Spotify logo. Taps around until he's found his way back to Garrett's profile.

No new playlists. He scrolls to the bottom of his feed, curious to see if he's missed anything.

 _Odd._ There's a little picture of him at the very end - a candid Garrett had taken on some random L.A. street corner, while they waited for an Uber together - next to the title, "Him 🧡."

When he opens it up and looks at the description, he finds these words:

_"'Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall in love with a gorgeous redhead.' - Lucille Ball"_

_Fuck._

Even for him, this is hard to misinterpret.

He texts Garrett; says, **_"Any song recs for this week?"_**

Three gray dots, instantly, and Garrett's sent him a link to "Are You In Love?" by James Blake.

Andrew drops his phone onto the couch; covers his face with his hands. Gets up and paces around, trying to get rid of his nervous energy. Muster up the courage to reply.

Finally grows a pair and texts Garrett back: _**"Yes."**_

* * *

It ends like this:

"You know, I thought that was a private playlist," Garrett chuckles. His hand is warm against Andrew's back.

"We all make mistakes sometimes, Garr," Andrew teases. "Even you aren't perfect."

"Oh, well, I knew that," Garrett says, falling immediately into the comfort of their never-ceasing back-and-forth. "I think _you_ are, though."

"Flattery's a lost cause on me, Watts; I've sold my soul to James Blake already."

"That's really too bad," Garrett tells him, and leans in to kiss him again. "Because I seem to recall you telling me, just a few minutes ago, that you're mine."

Andrew's eyes well up. "Yeah, I am," he says thickly, softly. "I'm yours."

"I love you," Garrett says, and it is the most natural thing in the world; this is what he's been saying for years without words. He moves to rest their foreheads together as they sway in the light of his living room. All Andrew knows is peace.

If Garrett's humming is a little out of tune while they slow dance, because it's very difficult to cry and sing at the same time... well.

Andrew forgives him, and doesn't say anything.

He loves him - has loved him, will love him - nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Garrett _definitely_ likes Postmodern Jukebox, I'm just saying.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr! I’m @[cherryblossomwatts](https://cherryblossomwatts.tumblr.com). Feel free to [send me a writing request](https://cherryblossomwatts.tumblr.com/ask), if you’d like!
> 
> Any comments you leave about this piece are truly appreciated! They help me to continue writing, and I read and respond to each one.


End file.
